


Smoke and Dust and Memoryrust

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Confusing amalgamation of book and show canon, Frottage, Guilt, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Fantasy, Three Eyed Raven!Bran, generally weird and depressing, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “You used to spend a lot of time in this room.”Jon averts his eyes. “I did.” He's sure Bran doesn't mean it as an accusation; he can't, but the lingering guilt is still there, swirling in his stomach. “Robb and I were always close. You know that, Bran.”“Close.” Bran's voice gives nothing away, as it doesn't nowadays. “Do you miss him?”Jon remembers Robb. Bran remembers a lot of things.





	Smoke and Dust and Memoryrust

“You wanted to see me, Bran?”

Jon doesn't know why Bran called him here, of everywhere in the castle. He doesn't understand much of what Bran does these days. When he returned to Winterfell, Sansa did warn him how much their little brother had changed – but Jon didn't think much of it: after all the years that passed and everything that happened, they had all changed. But now, he is starting to gather what she meant.

“Close the door Jon,” comes the murmur from the bed, and Jon does so. It must have taken Bran some effort to get to this room, to lie upon the bed. Maester Wolkan's chair sits by the edge of it. Clearly, Bran came here for a reason.

Jon swallows deeply. The room smells of dust and rot, soot from when the Boltons' sacked it, and a future long since forgotten, all the signs of a room left to waste. He has not been here since they took the castle back again. He does not think anyone has. The room, like its owner, is too great a wound in the heart of the North, a grief and a fury that cannot be reasoned with. Jon, standing here, can only remember how often he was here before, too many times, all the vague memory of the gods' words, Old and New, about sin and punishment.

“This was Robb's room,” Bran says, not looking at him, staring out the window into the snowy sky.

A shiver goes through Jon's body. “It was.” Sansa has done a good job, it must be said, making their halls look like they were never touched by another family, and yet something still seems off in there to Jon. It's like looking at a reflection of Winterfell, but not Winterfell itself. He sighs. “What is this about, Bran?” He says softly as he approaches, gently sitting on the edge of the bed.

Bran turns to look at him, and Jon has to remind himself not to be frightened. No matter what's happened, this is still his little brother, and he has to believe the Bran he knows and loves is still under there somewhere. “I was trying to reacquaint myself,” he says. “The places I used to know, the people, the past we once lived it. It was all very important, a long time ago.”

Jon nods along, even though he's not quite sure he follows. “I see,” he says, and valiantly, he tries to think of what Father would do in this situation. Father always had a lesson to be learned, some grim message about the values, the honour, the history of the North. Jon's not sure if those lessons will help here. “Is there... something you want me to tell you about?”

For a long moment, Bran remains silent, and sits so still Jon almost fears he might have died. Bran looks a little like his mother, and a little like Father too, but more than any of them he looks like himself. His hair, red in the right light, is now almost as dark as Jon's, and his eyes too are near-black, opaque. It seems fitting.

“You used to spend a lot of time in this room.”

Jon averts his eyes. “I did.” He's sure Bran doesn't mean it as an accusation; he can't, but the lingering guilt is still there, swirling in his stomach. “Robb and I were always close. You know that, Bran.”

“Close.” Bran's voice gives nothing away, as it doesn't nowadays. “Do you miss him?”

And Jon winces at the sudden flood of memories, the ones he keeps buried most days, of Robb as he was: his easy grin, his mask of solemnity, his laugh when they were alone, his moan when Jon would– “Of course I do,” says Jon. And it's true. He has every reason to miss Robb. Gently, he leans forward and wraps his fingers around Bran's wrists, and speaks as if he's trying to trigger a memory. “We all do.”

And something flickers on Bran's face, a frown mayhaps, like he almost recalls but not quite. The way Sansa explained it, the problem is not that Bran cannot recall though, but that he recalls too much, from too far afield. Jon doesn't really know what that means.

Slowly, Bran winds his fingers through Jon's, the flesh warm underneath. Jon flushes when he remembers the nights he spent with Robb like this, Robb insisting on claiming his hand in the privacy of his chambers, if he could do so nowhere else. It's not the same though. It can't be.

Bran stares down at their entertwined hands curiously, like examining a small insect. “He missed you,” he whispers. “He didn't speak of it. He didn't speak of much to me. I was just a boy. But he was frightened, and lonely... and he missed you.”

Jon winces again. Robb wasn't much more than a boy himself back then, just as he was. Robb, one could argue, never got the chance to be much more. “Bran, what are you doing?” Gently, he tries to extract his fingers from Bran's grip, and to his surprise Bran only tightens it.

“Did you think of him, Jon?” Bran looks deep into his eyes as he says it, his voice lowering to a whisper, as if even he knows he'd best not be heard. “I've been North, I know how cold it is. Those long nights... did you think of him then?”

And Jon feels slightly ill, the fear of discovery – long forgotten, buried under a hundred fears closer, thought sent to the grave with Robb – back all of a sudden, as noxious as ever. “Bran,” he says slowly, struggling for an explanation. Bran cannot know, there's no way he possibly could. But looking at him, how can he not?

“You're alone now,” Bran tells him, and it catches Jon off-guard. He isn't really. He has Sansa and Arya and Bran himself: parts of his family, if not the whole. He has the parts of his family that were never anything more than that, that were what they should be. It probably isn't fair, really.

He doesn't understand until suddenly Bran's hand slips from his wrist and onto his knee. Fingers still cool, Bran squeezes softly, Jon gasps. “What are you–?” he starts, but it's hard not to get a broad impression. Robb used to start things much the same.

Bran just tilts his head to the side, curious, his hand slowly inching up Jon's thigh. “Do you want to know how he felt?” he asks. “What he thought? What he dreamed of? The nights he spent on his back in this bed, crying and fisting his cock, waiting for you to come back?”

And Jon feels his cock jump, remembering the nights he made Robb cry and beg for him, just as his heart pangs at the thought of how he made Robb cry in the end. It's only then he has the strength to grab Bran's wrist and hold it still. “Bran, stop it,” he says. He does not know what his little brother wants from him: to taunt him, punish him for what he did to Robb, or – or something else.

Bran is not a boy anymore, perhaps in more ways than one. He's no younger than Jon and Robb were when they began. But he's still Jon's little brother. He committed this sin once (more than once) and could never do it again.

They stare at each other a moment, caught in a deathly silence, and Jon doesn't know what he should say, what he can say which won't make things worse. Bran just raises an eyebrow at him. Suddenly, something comes over him, like a great dark cloud descending overhead, and Jon feels his blood pulse hot and heavy, skin ghostly cold.

“Jon,” Bran says, his voice torn, rasping, and Jon's pulse races when he realises how his brother sounds. Like his brother. “Jon, I miss you.” That hand is moving up again, and Jon suddenly feels powerless to stop it. “I'm trying to be brave and strong, but I'm so alone. I'm trying to take care of our brothers, but I don't know if I can do it. Gods, I wish you were here.”

“Bran,” Jon whispers, one last futile attempt at reminding himself where he is, who it is who's touching him, but already his eyes are drifting shut, the fantasy washing over him.

“I'm trying, Jon, I promise,” the voice comes as Jon feels his laces toyed with, tested. “But I just want to go back. I want to spend all my life in this bed, with you, fucking until I don't remember my own name. Do you think that makes me terrible?”

Jon groans. That doesn't sound like Robb to him. Jon was always the one worried about what they were doing, that they would call the curse of the gods down upon them – ironic, since Robb was the one who listened to his mother's gods, the ones with all the rules. Robb never seemed to worry about what they did, about what it meant, about how they would destroy one another. Then again, if he did, perhaps he just never said.

A hand closes between his legs, over the bulge surfacing there, and he moans. “You're only terrible if you stop.” And then he hears a chuckle that sounds so much like Robb, who else could it possibly be?

With his eyes closed his laces are undone, and a hand (thinner than Robb's, and yet more calloused; years of having to get around without his legs no doubt) slides inside his smallclothes, making him moan and the strange sensation of having another man touch him. “Robb,” he gasps as he hardens fully in the grip. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you. I had to. If I'd stayed, you'd – you'd–”

He always thought if he let himself stay with Robb, he'd ruin him. But now Robb is more ruined than Jon could ever have made him: his body broken, defiled, rotting at the bottom of the Trident. How much more harm can he do?

“Just stay with me now, Jon,” is the answer. “Forget it all. You always did worry too much. Forget it all and be with me.”

Jon opens his eyes. In front of him sits a boy, ghostlike in the winter sun, red hair and blue eyes almost black, as old as Robb was when he left. He doesn't look that much like Robb, not really. But he does a little. Jon leaps forward.

Bran gasps when he falls upon the bed, a gasp that could be true or acted, but Jon is not in much mind to pay attention anymore. He fumbles into position, sliding between his brother's legs until he can feel a hardness to match his own, not the same as Robb's was, but as he grinds down against it feverishly that little detail is easily forgotten.

There's a moan in his ear as they rut together, fingers digging into his shoulder, strong enough he can think they're Robb's. “Jon, Jon,” his brother gasps underneath, shuddering as Jon thrusts against him, and it makes Jon wonder how much he can actually feel, and how much is a show for his benefit, but he can't know the answers there so he tries not to ask the question.

“Robb,” he answers, with a vague, clumsy kiss to the side of his brother's neck, and it's like his six and ten again, rutting like an animal and terrified he could be caught any second.

“I missed this so much,” comes the strangled voice underneath him, taut as a harpstring. “I want you so much. Need you on me, above me, in me, gods Jon – just don't stop, please, please, don't stop.”

“I won't,” Jon says, his eyes still closed as he thrusts harder and faster against the willing body beneath him, too tall, too thin, but an echo of his desires, one he can't not hear. His brother moans for him, the way Robb used to, and Jon has forgotten how much he missed that sound.

“Love you,” is the last quiet gasp until the body is rocked over by a shiver, and Jon remembers when Robb first cried that out as Jon grasped for his body, and it terrified him, because he couldn't deny it. The pleasure rushes through him and he feels his body tighten, spending into a memory.

And as always, there is that strange moment between pleasure and reality, where he catches his breath and is himself again. Slowly, reluctantly, he opens his eyes – and beneath him, Robb is long gone. Bran stares.

Jon stares back. That voice, that spoke with so much passion, that reminded him of how he loved Robb enough to sully his honour so, lays beneath a face as cold and blank as ever. Jon feels a dawning horror at what he's just done, to have given into Bran's advances, advances he still doesn't even understand, but he knows were sick, wrong, because there was no other way he could reach into the past.

He thinks of Lady Catelyn. He was always terrified of what she would think, what she would do if she knew what he was doing with her beloved firstborn. He was terrified she would be right. He remembers watching he weep over Bran's broken body. If she were here, he's certain she would rip him clean in two. The thought she too is long dead, and could do nothing to him if she wanted to, gives him no comfort.

He is left red and breathless and sweaty, and Bran still seems a statue. Jon almost grows angry at him. “Why?” he asks to his brother's face, still lost, searching for answers to questions it may be above him even to ask.

Bran remains quiet a long while, perhaps thinking it over. “I wanted to understand,” he says. “What you were. How you felt. Who he was to you.”

And Jon's anger only worsens. Rightly or wrongly, he feels _used_. “And do you, now?”

Bran doesn't answer that, and Jon huffs in frustration, pushing himself up off the bed. He winces as he feels his own seed cooling in his breeches, like a boy again, full of heady lust and bad decisions. He loved his brother, even if it wasn't the right way. He loved his brother enough he chose to leave him, to let him live the life he ought to. And Robb died horribly while he wasn't looking. It might have been a mistake, but Jon meant well.

Slowly, he looks back over his shoulder and sees Bran just lying there. You could think him dead himself. They _did_ think him dead for so long. Jon does not know what Bran is now. Nor does he know what he has done to the bond he has with the one brother he has left.

“Bran?” he says, doing his best to act as if everything is normal, as if this didn't happen. “Should I help you into your chair?”

And Bran shakes his head. “That would be necessary,” he says, in a room full of dust and smoke. “I think I'll stay here awhile.”

 


End file.
